Single Supplements - Give Us a Break

Business travel at a fraction of the cost. 

The French boutique airline, La Compagnie, which in June started operating flights between New York, London and Paris, appears to have it all – until you try to register on their site. As I travel between all three places and enjoy my creature comforts, when I tried to sign up I discovered I couldn’t, as there were just two options: Mr or Mrs.

   

As a single woman, I have always refused to tick the “Miss” box on any application form, for one simple reason: no man is ever asked to tick “Master” or “Mister" i.e. a man is never asked to declare whether he is married or not. While many sneer at “Ms”, it is, to me, entirely correct. The only reason women were ever required to declare their marital status was because, as singles, they were deemed unable to have the resources to pay their bills: having a man as an appendage made a woman reliable (allegedly. They’ll learn).

   

I had this argument with British Telecom some years back, when they asked if I was a Miss or a Mrs. I refused to tell them and questioned whether men were required to say if they were single or married. Of course, they were not.

   

La Compagnie also offers special deals, yet the current ones are all “for two”. I have no partner, I travel alone, yet always find myself excluded from the things I enjoy the most. I can’t, for example, have the Chateaubriand or the paella “for two” in a restaurant. I once ordered the latter and said I would pay the full price, but was refused on the grounds that it would be “too much for one person”. No amount of my arguing that I would just leave half of it would persuade the waiter to help me part with my money. I very much doubt they would have treated a man with the same gastronomic contempt. I ended up with a pork chop. For one.

   

Single women are still perceived as weirdos when out alone or, at best, second class citizens. In San Francisco one lunchtime last year, I was pointed to a really nice table in the middle of the restaurant, only to be bumped when the maitre d’ spotted a couple behind me in the queue. She then told me I could sit at the bar or outside. The bar was overcrowded; the outside seat had a great view of Alcatraz (possibly the only time anyone has wanted to escape to the prison). I left without eating and phoned to make a complaint. 

“We really don’t treat women like that,” said the manager. “You just did,” I pointed out, adding that the couple who took my table probably had a green salad between them and a jug of tap water. I would have had champagne, wine, three courses, and probably still been in there when dinnertime came around, to begin the routine all over again.

   

It is hard enough being single in a world where travel companies continue to charge single supplements, tax breaks benefit couples, and society as a whole celebrates and fawns over marriage, without having to deal with the anti-singles frustrations socially. I happen to be a big fan of marriage: I come from a very stable background and am lucky enough to have had a loving mother and father who could not have been better parents. It just hasn’t worked out that way for me. I’m not bitter about it; I don’t really think about it, unless I am asked. I have a wonderful family, incredible friends and, for all its obstacles, a better life than most people in the world. I am truly blessed.

   

But I still get treated like a social leper as a single woman. Most married couples don’t include you at their social functions unless they have a recently divorced/largely unmarketable/psycho man in their circle that they might be able to palm off on you. Then there are the practical difficulties to deal with when you are out. If you have to go to the toilet when you are in a restaurant, you have limited choices: leave your stuff at the table and return to find it removed by a waiter who thinks you have done a runner, or have it stolen by a passer-by. 

The third option - asking the people at the next table to keep an eye on your things - attracts the kind of looks you might get had you handed them a rifle and asked them to commit armed robbery in your absence.

   

It’s not as if I haven’t tried to meet someone who will split the Chateaubriand with me, but it hasn’t gone well. I recently attended a gathering of singles, where a French hobbit grappled with my friend’s right breast in what appeared to be an attempt to secure her stick-on name badge. He was 103, if he was a day. Next, a walrus appeared at my side, claiming to be a criminal psychologist. The walrus was also in the early stages of dementia, because he asked me my name five times. 

There was also an attempt to entertain us by a 'close-up magician', who tried to hypnotise us with non-existent snake oil. We had to imagine our hands were glued together with said oil and then try to pull them apart, the premise being that we wouldn't be able to. Er, we did.

   

The truth is, that if a man is single, there is something wrong with him (all the good ones really are taken); but if a woman is single, the chances are that she has had the good sense and guts to ditch the men who have that something wrong with them. That’s not to say there aren’t strange women out there (heck, I know some guys who would categorise me as that) but, for the most part, there are far more bright, sharp, funny women on the market than there are men. 

If a man is free, trust me, there’s something wrong with him, and unless you act fast to secure Windows 2016 about now (you have to look out for those inevitable Christmas break-ups), you’re going to miss out on the good guys next time around, too.

   

So, as I sit contemplating my Chateaubriand and paella free lifestyle while planning my travel over the next few months, I’m going to suggest to you, Sir Richard Branson, entrepreneur, enabler and grand empowerer of people, that you get behind my campaign to get great deals for single women. I can’t think of anyone better to have on our side, and all it needs now is for me to sign off. 

Yours, hopefully, Jaci Stephen (Ms).

  

  

    

  

  

    

   

Not Written in the Stars

My guardian angel has given up on me. 

After threats of misery, heartache and lifelong trauma unless I hand over my credit card details, he has moved on to others clearly more needy than I am.

   

I thought I had shaken off Adrian the astrologer, but, possibly sensing that the guardian angel was winging away, he has returned with a vengeance. Fearful of my destiny unless I sign up to his cosmic plan, he is now offering a discounted rate.

   

Adrian seems even more worried for me than the angel was (they’re so fickle, these celestial beings) and has written to ask if I could imagine a life without fear.

   

To be honest, Adrian, I didn’t have any fear in my life until you popped into it, telling me all sorts of weird stuff about planets coming to eat me when I slept, and the like.

   

I don’t think Adrian is very in tune with me. For example, he asks me to imagine knowing “exactly what you wanted and how you should go about getting it.” Been there, done that, Adrian. Knew it. Got it. Next.

   

Any goal, any obstacle, meeting every challenge . . . he goes on, and the ultimate prize is apparently my finding “the treasured gift hidden within”.

   

Within where, exactly? And what kind of gift? Oh, hang on, here we go: “Imagine being able to build the financial empire you’ve always dreamed of.”

   

Dreams really aren’t Adrian’s thing, because I’ve never dreamed of building a financial empire; just having enough to shop in Whole Foods once a month, that would suit me.

   

I can’t help feeling that Adrian’s got my planets, if not my entire solar system, muddled with someone else’s. He asks me to imagine what it would be like to travel the world (done that – in fact, it’s why I find myself sitting in New York, even as I write), or write “that novel” (did that – 1990; you are way behind, Adrian). He adds: “or even just buying the home of your dreams”.

   

Now, there’s the problem: if I had not bought so many homes of my dreams, I would have a financial empire by now. The very last thing I need is another one, when I am already trying to offload the two I currently have.

   

To deliver the things that I apparently need for my “Transit Period Guide”, Adrian has reduced the price of the purchase to $19, or, as he puts it, “a fraction of the normal price . . . just 19 dollars!”

   

That’s still 2 x 1.5 litres of Montepulciano at Grand Cru, my local wine store in New York, or as much as I can drink between the hours of 5pm and 7pm at Adella, my favourite wine bar. It’s also 19 – yes, 19 – Celeste pizzas from Peapod (with 19 cents change). So, you see, Adrian, you can cost price all you like, but the pizza is still going to be a lot more reliable than you appear to be.

   

Adrian has a very simply solution: “We just need to find a way to help you move past the financial obstacles that are holding you back!” You’re telling me! Like paying angels and astrologers to empty my bank account.

   

The “exclusive” offer and “amazing discount” is apparently going to come to an end very soon, and Adrian urges me to act fast because I “CAN” have everything I dream of.

   

Okay: I dream of playing the piano to a room full of people disappointed when the guy they have booked drops dead at the keyboard.

I dream of meeting a man I can keep chained in the basement to stop him breathing the same air as other women, while I go out partying.

Most of all, I dream about taking over the controls of a Jumbo 747 when the pilot collapses with food poisoning at the wheel/stick/control panel, or whatever it is. 

You see? Apart from the words “wings” and “drinks trolley”, and the knowledge that the pilot sits at the front, I know eff all about planes; that might be a bit of a problem, I can see. 

But when I was asked on a recent radio interview what was my ultimate fantasy, it was the last one. Saving people’s lives has to top the list every time – apart from the dream of Wales beating England in tomorrow’s Rugby World Cup match, obviously.

   

So, Adrian, my “Devoted Guide”, as you keep calling yourself, unless my $19 is going to buy me the fulfilment of these dreams, I ain’t paying. I’m actually questioning your devotion, anyway. 

I once went out with a Jewish Hungarian Australian dentist who said he was falling for me in a big way; the next day, he came out in a facial rash and broke up with me, so forgive me for being a bit suspicious on the whole devotion front.

   

If you get to speak to my angel, though, do give him my regards; it was good while it lasted. 

But while the sky might have no limit in your celestial and planetary worlds, the sphere of credit cards most definitely does.

  

   

The Heart of Darkness

The truth is, no one ever knows. 

You can’t touch emotional pain, and the most you can hope for is that you are surrounded by people who know you well enough and care enough about you, to hear the subtext of your heart. 

Where physical injury is given permission to take time off to recuperate, the suffering of the muscle that pumps our lives must pretend that all is well; that is its duty. One day, it will stop of its own accord, or, as all too often happens, the leaseholder (for that is, at the end, all we are) will take the decision to hand it back. 

Sometimes, the pain is just too much, and calling time on it feels easier than the ache of infinity.

   

There has been relatively little media attention bestowed upon National Suicide Prevention Week, which officially ends tomorrow. The S word is still one that people tend to avoid until a celebrity brings it into the spotlight. And even then, the search for logic overshadows the fundamental reason why people choose to end their lives: you just want your heart to stop its noise.

   

There is still relatively little sympathy for anyone who chooses death over life. It is seen as the choice of a deranged mind, a selfishness that defies rational thought; the ultimate act of violence. From the moment we are born, we have a fear of the dark; anyone who chooses voluntarily to enter that space is branded a coward. In reality, it is probably the bravest decision anyone can make.

   

It’s hard to describe to anyone who has not experienced the precipice of darkness exactly what it feels like; the best I can manage is that it feels like nothing: a state of being devoid of all sensory perception; a blob of pain that nothing other than total annihilation can wipe out. Sometimes, it is triggered by an event; sometimes, it arrives without warning; sometimes, it pierces a moment of joy as a demon serving to remind you of your vulnerability. It’s just an absence of life.

   

Fear not, I am not about to buy a one way ticket to the Brooklyn Bridge, but this is a week in which it is worth making ourselves extra aware of the fragility of people around us. Depression can strike anyone at any time, and my way of dealing with it has been to build up a memory bank that has, incredibly, served as a life reinforcement when the darkness comes calling.

   

During one such moment, I asked a friend what had stopped him from committing suicide. He said “The thought of someone breaking the news to my parents”. 

Another friend, who had lost her mother to cancer, became emotional when I told her of my feelings because, as she rightly pointed out, “when you see the struggle some people go through to hang on”.

   

When a close friend killed himself 20 years ago, I remember hearing my favourite piece of music, Mozart’s Requiem, just after, and sobbing because he would never hear it again.

   

When the walls fold in, none of this may count; but I reinforce these three things regularly in the hope that even their whisper will save me from drowning.

   

There is so much else to be grateful for. 

I have a wonderful family, great friends, and what seems, to many, an enviable lifestyle. I envy no one, I am healthy, and I am incredibly loyal to those around me, even though many have taken advantage of that. 

That’s okay; it’s life. 

There are givers and takers; drains and radiators. Life is at its best when there are two givers, two radiators. A taker will always take advantage of a giver; a drain will always bleed a radiator dry. You just have to seek out the good guys. 

There are more than you might think.

   

Nothing matters more than people, who will always surprise you. When I wrote an article last year about some pressing problems, the kindness not only of friends, but complete strangers, was overwhelming. That, too, has added to my memory bank.

   

So, as National Suicide Prevention Week draws to its close, I want to say thank you to all the people who have prevented me from jumping, both literally and metaphorically. 

Thank you for your love, your kindness, and listening to me when I talk rubbish. 

Thank you for being there when lesser people would have walked away. 

Thank you for wiping my tears, and for building me up when I am consumed with self-loathing.

Thank you for being my lifeline.

Thank you for being the door keepers to the darkness and blocking my way when I wanted to walk there. 

Thank you, from the bottom, the top, and the middle of a heart that keeps on beating.

  

     

    

Stalked by an Angel

It’s a thin line between an angel watching your back and being on it. 

This, I have discovered to my cost, after my guardian angel started stalking me.

   

A friend has pointed out that this is what they have to do, otherwise how could they guard you. But I’m not convinced. Seriously. I am being stalked by an angel.

   

I don’t think I actively sought out a guardian angel, as I have so many people I don’t see in my life as it is, without having to cater for another. But I figured that with the flying advantage (do angels get Flying Miles, by the way? Just asking, because I’m a few thousand short for my next trip), they might be a little less demanding. Not so. 

   

If you read my previous blogs, you will know how Padre, the angel hunter and I, became acquainted; you will also know that I did not give the heavenly throng my credit card details.

   

However, ever since I made the briefest contact, the angel has been on my back (you see what I mean?). I have been told to fill in forms, click on links, get in touch by every means possible, otherwise I will lose the good fortune (mainly monetary) that is apparently winging its way to me (geddit?).

   

Padre is even more persistent than Adrian the astrologer, who appears to have given up on me. Padre has warned that I have just 72 hours before the angel gives up on me, too. It’s a bit of a strange missive, because he declares he “must reveal to you without delay” and then doesn’t relay anything of significance at all (it’s what I call a delaying tactic).

   

This revelation has to do with “a very positive thing for the proper progress of your imminent happiness.” Hmmmph. More delays. Is my happiness progressive, or is it imminent? Imminent, to me, means the next two minutes; progressive could be 2018, at the earliest.

   

Now, here’s the key: “A phenomenon in angelical magic will be triggered on your behalf after you have read this letter.” I tell you: it’s another slow week for angels, because mine (whose name I have forgotten) cannot stop writing to me. I suspect he is not even going to be taking Labor Day off.

   

The letter tells me that within one minute, “you will have struck a decisive blow against your greatest enemy.”

   

Okay. Let’s give it a minute. 60, 59, 58, 57, 56, 55, 54, 53, 52, 51, 50, 49, 48, 47, 46, 45, 44, 43, 42, 41, 40, 39, 38, 37, 36, 35, 34, 33, 32, 31, 310, 209, 28, 27, 26, 25, 24, 23, 22, 21, 20, 19, 18, 17, 16, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7 (I’m getting really excited now), 6, 5, 4, (I am wetting myself), 3, 2, 1 . . . 

   

Nope, nothing. I think it may be because I don’t really have any enemies. There are people I don’t like, but I get them out of my life pretty quickly (and if they don’t like me, I just put a curse on them). Maybe there are enemies I am not even aware of, lurking in the shadows, although I am beginning to think that my angel is making up enemies purely in order to justify his job.

   

The next 72 hours are going to be crucial, too, bringing about a “great upheaval” – 60, 59, 58 . . . No, I really can’t go through that again.

   

The “spiritual angelical forces” are going to sort everything out and help me “strike a decisive blow against your greatest enemy”. My life of “poverty . . . emotional loneliness . . . misfortune, burdened with endless problems, drenched in bad news” (geez, you really know how to cheer a girl up on a weekend) is going to be over. My angel is going to destroy the enemy once and for all.

   

Now, listen up, angel. Listen real good. Because I’m going to teach you something.

   

Your greatest enemy is always yourself. You are the only person who stops you from achieving your goals. All the external bad forces in the world are no match for the inner strength that, as humans, we carry within us. You can flap your wings all you like and smile your silly smile from your fluffy blonde cloud, but you won’t change one of life’s fundamentals: we are the guardians of our own destiny.

   

So stop stalking me, angel, and stop contacting my friends just because they are on my Facebook page.

   

When you come up with a cure for yeast infections that doesn’t involve sending one’s vagina to a yoghurt convention, feel free to contact me again; because, until then, you are useless. 

You can call it what you like, but stalking by flying is still stalking, whichever way you look at it. 

Stick to what you're good at and tell a few unsuspecting virgins they are pregnant.

Now go away before I set God on you.

  

  

  

 

   

New York State of Mind - for Emma Freud and Richard Curtis

Dear Emma, Richard and family. Welcome to New York! I am sure that everyone will be full of good advice here as to what you should do, where you should go etc., so I thought I would chip in with a few useful pointers, too. UK’s loss in NYC’s gain!

1.     Don’t “Rush to the Macy’s sale”. There will be another one in 30 seconds. Every day. For 365 days. And 366 in a Leap Year.

2.     Don’t go to Macy’s. If you don’t break your neck rushing to the Macy’s sale, sure as hell you will do so rushing for the elevators. That one woman with three hatboxes you watched in old movies has been replaced by 20 overweight women with strollers.

3.     Say stroller, not pushchair.

4.     Don’t even think of asking for a European wine outside of a smart hotel. There is only one. Pinot Grigio.

5.     Allow an extra 40 minutes for every restaurant experience you will be sending back the corked Pinot Grigio and debating with management holding it up to the light saying they can’t see any cork in it.

6.     Fear not for the “blizzard” everyone is already warning you about that will allegedly arrive in January. It won’t. It’s a flurry.

7.     Every man is gay. Keep Richard locked up at all times.

8.     Shop online at Peapod. Don’t do Fresh Direct, which is way more expensive. Don’t shop at Food Emporium unless you want to spend the next three days crying. And starving.

9.     Don’t attempt irony. I cannot stress this enough.

10.  Every 4^th drink is free. If it’s not, move on.

11.  Avoid Irish bars. People in them are even marginally less funny than they are in Dublin on a Saturday night. “You’re gonna laugh at this” means you won’t.

12.  Learn how to talk about sport in bars. Here are some useful phrases - all to be spoken in a VERY LOUD VOICE while (preferably) throwing a chair: F*****g moron! ISIS c**t! Tom is innocent! Yay, the Heat, maaaaan! No f*****g way ISIS c**t! etc. etc.

13.  There is no such thing as a free hot dog. They may tell you that in Rudy’s dive bar, but you will still be paying the price several days on. Trust me.

14.  Don’t snog anyone in Rudy’s dive bar. Especially after 3am. And especially if they have consumed a free hot dog. And REALLY trust me on that.

15.  Do not interpret the lit-up pedestrian icon at every junction as a signal that it is safe to cross the road. It isn’t. It is an incentive to every driver to accelerate and try to kill you.

16.  Customer service is second to none. Buy everything. Use it. When you are bored with it, take it back and say you want them to exchange it. They will. You won’t have three birthdays while arguing your case at the Marks and Spencer Returns desk.

17.  Don’t trust the Bed, Bath and Beyond 20% off coupons. You will find that most things are at least 25% less on Amazon.

18.  If you fall into the Bed, Bath and Beyond 20% off coupons trap, remember you can always take everything back (see 16).

19.  Don’t fly American Airlines. Ever. Life is too short. Unlike their waiting times, while they try to fix mechanical faults.

20.  Don’t watch FOX news. It is not good for your blood pressure.

21.  Do watch Suits (hot lawyers), The Good Wife (more hot lawyers), Law and Order: SVU (hot lawyers and cops with a mutilated body every episode), Mistresses (best garbage on TV), How to Get Away with Murder (or How to Get Away with Stretching a Weak Premise to its Limit), Chasing Life (the sometimes upside of cancer).

22.  Don’t give your phone number to anyone after 4am. You really will get a call the following morning from a stranger whose opening gambit will be: “Hi, we met on the subway last night.”  Some of us have learnt the hard way.

23.  Join Chelsea Piers. It is by far the best gym/sports venue in the city. Don’t opt for the “Are you happy to go circular?” in the pool. It is really a Jaws remake.

24.  The answer to anyone asking “D’you want to join me in a shot?” should always be NO. Shots are the Devil’s work.

25.  You will never bump into Jimmy Fallon. Be content with breathing the same air. Anything else is delusion.

26.  Central Park is full of mosquitoes and thousands of people who run or cycle in the opposite direction from the one in which you are traveling.

27.  Never spell with two LLs where one will do.

28.  They love Brits here. And I mean really love us. If in doubt, put on your best Downton Abbey accent. You will get everything for free.

29.  Address everyone as “Sir” or “Madam”, especially cab drivers. Over politeness goes a long way here – unless it is interpreted wrongly, in which case you will be stabbed.

30.  ENJOY! You are embarking on a great adventure that you will love! The UK’s loss is New York’s gain *sings Star Spangled Banner while saluting*. Oh yes, I forgot. Learn the damned words to that.

Walruses and Hobbits - Another Doomed Manhunt

I like men. I've never made any secret of that fact.

I enjoy the company of women and probably have an equal number of male and female friends. But when it comes to dating, men really have a much bigger pool in which to fish. Where they have an ocean, women don’t have even an aquarium. I’m not even sure we have a goldfish bowl. And, after last night’s experience, I’m beginning to think we don’t even have an eye-bath of eligible candidates.

   

Despite liking men, I’ve also never made any secret of the fact that I don’t want one for keeps. Unlike puppies, a man really is just for Christmas. Well into my fifties, I think that is unlikely to change. I’m just too distrusting of the male species ever to be able to commit. When you wonder if you should hire a Private Investigator to find out what your fiancé is up to in the limo on the way to the altar, it’s safe to say marriage may not be for you. True, it’s never got that far (the altar bit; not the PI), but I’m pretty sure everyone is up to no good. I’d make a great prosecutor. But I digress.

   

So, back to the dating. My friend Catrin asked if I would like to try out a free singles night in a hotel bar (I’m going to keep the finer details out of this, for reasons that will become apparent). I’m always up for meeting new people and doing different things, so readily agreed.

   

I’ve never had much luck on the dating front, though, as readers of my constantly Retweeted piece about the dastardly LA Singles will know. I’ve been targeted by Easter bunnies trying to thrust their carrots upon me, hobbits who lied about their height, and every chain-smoking dwarf from Wisconsin.  

   

The problem with this date night was that it was specifically targeted for people over 50. Now, while I am over 50, there are very few men in that age bracket I would go for unless under the influence of chloroform (Judge Alex Ferrer: you are, of course, the exception to the rule. Donald Trump: you’re not). Most men don’t age well, and while I went for older men in my twenties, I am now more attracted to men who are in their twenties. Intellectually, they bore the pants off me (metaphorically: I haven’t worn underwear for 20 years - but I digress again), but as the saying goes: they can’t do it well but they can do it often.

   

It’s not true that age equals experience. Men who were crap in bed when they were young are just as bad, if not worse, when they are older. You only have to look at what they ask for on the Ashley Madison website to see that. A tamer list of sexual requests it would be hard to find (just look it up when you need a really big laugh). So, I wasn’t optimistic on the over fifties front.

   

We arrived at the hotel where two women sat behind a desk waiting to register participants. I’m not a big name badge person, but that was the only way we were going to get cost price drinks, so it was a small price to pay for ruining my Issey Miyake top (that was another thing: dress had to be “business casual” – what the heck’s that when it’s at home?).

   

We almost didn’t make it further than the desk because the women had such a struggle with the spelling of the Welsh name Catrin. It was like pulling teeth. We nearly missed Happy Hour in the time they took to get it right. “Catherine without the H,” my friend attempted, for the hundredth time. Obviously, that got us nowhere either, because it wasn’t strictly true. I tell you: Jaci was a breeze in the park after that.

   

So, we were finally in. Suddenly, a French man (another hobbit - geez, did nobody ever hear of growth hormones?) appeared beside us and touched Catrin’s right breast in what appeared to be an attempt to secure her stick-on name badge. He was 103 if he was a day. Next, a walrus appeared at my side, claiming to be a criminal psychologist.

   

Oh, dear. That was a really big mistake on his part. I have spent the past three days watching wall to wall Criminal Minds, so there is (obviously) nothing I don’t know about criminal psychology. Shoulda left it, walrus. You specially shoulda left it before you asked: “What are your favourite TV programmes?”

   

The walrus was also in the early stages of dementia, because he asked me what my favourite programmes were at least five times. It’s always gonna be Suits, The Good Wife and Criminal Minds, mate (did I mention I’m an attorney, too?).

There was an attempt at entertaining us with a 'close-up magician', who tried to hypnotise us with non-existent snake oil. We had to imagine our hands were glued together with said oil and then try to pull them apart, the premise being that we wouldn't be able to. Er, we did.

Maybe he would have better luck with cards? "I just saw you put the card in your pocket," I pointed out. My friend thought I was being cruel, but call me old-fashioned, the one thing I want from magic is something that actually looks like magic, not somebody fishing around in their pocket for small change. My only hope was that he would be able to make the walrus, who was slithering towards us again, disappear. Alas, he couldn't do that, either. 

   

This was not going well. Then, a bizarre thing happened. A few Oriental ladies whose total age would not have come anywhere near 50 arrived and started to hit on every man in the room. You could almost see the words Green Card in shining lights above their heads. A bald, fat guy – let’s call him Whaleman – wasted no time in putting his tongue down one Miss Pearl of the Orient’s throat. Well, it was less of a kiss and more of a devouring. When half of her head disappeared, I was a hair’s breadth from calling paramedics.

   

People have always told women who want to pull a guy never to sleep with them on the first date. Here’s my advice: sleep with them only on the first date – because on last night’s evidence, by the time the alcohol wears off, you’ll want to rush the hell out of there and get back to the bar for last orders.

   

Now, give me a map to the twenties disco. 

Where’s Harry Styles when you need him?

Googleaphobia - and Fear of Fear

I’m not ill very often. 

In fact, the last time I had to take to my sickbed was May 1999, although I think that had more to do with the man I had just started seeing rather than illness.

   

That doesn’t stop me being a complete hypochondriac. I once steamed open a letter from my doctor to a specialist where I was going for X-rays, and it said: “An exceptionally healthy young woman who worries unnecessarily about her heath.”

   

I think it has less to do with my own health and more about how much I read about the arbitrariness of life. At any given moment, an aneurysm can send you to an early grave; cancer can suddenly be discovered throughout your entire body. Our entire existence spins on a dime.

   

Last night, I developed earache. Naturally, I thought it was a brain tumour and started to worry about my belongings spread throughout the world in different countries and who was going to clear them all. More to the point, who was going to find me? No one I know has my address in the US, and the first anyone might know about my demise would be the Daily Mail’s sub-editors staring down at a blank page where my weekly copy should be.

   

Then I noticed that the bottom of my feet were a strange colour. I took to Google to see what this could possibly mean, then developed an even worse headache with the worry of how I would live when my legs were chopped off to stave off whatever infestation was clearly developing. And did you read about this new tick that can give you a disease even worse than Lyme’s?

   

It transpired that my foot problem is nothing more than the brown dye on the sandals I haven’t worn for a while transferring itself to my bare heels; my ear and head problems are down to my Armani glasses. I need glasses only for reading, and my Tommy Hilfiger ones are a joy (which may be why I have had three pairs stolen and keep having to replace them). But the Armani – my head feels like the filling in a Sumo sandwich. It’s not that they are especially tight; they are just so heavy. I’m clenching my jaws in my sleep again, too – reading late night Google diagnoses does that to you – and that, too, can give you head pain.

   

I worry about the health and wellbeing of everyone around me these days. If my friends are off social networking for a couple of days, I am all but ordering flowers for their funerals. I see the planes and helicopters fly over the Hudson every day and am always relieved when one passes my window without exploding. I am suspicious of anyone carrying a bag and travelling by themselves (that’s me, too, which may explain why I am always stopped by Customs, who clearly share the same anxiety).

   

We live in anxious times – and thank god for the quick thinking men who overpowered a suspected terrorist and prevented a catastrophe on the train headed for Paris last Friday. It’s when anxiety takes over our lives that we need to start worrying (you see? That’s something else to worry about). When I look down the list of how many phobias there are, I begin to realise just how anxious I really am.

   

I don’t have Arachibutyrophobia - fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of the mouth, because I don’t eat it (largely because of a hatred of it sticking to the roof of my mouth, I hasten to add). I don’t have Bogyphobia - fear of bogeys or the bogeyman (but then that’s probably because when I was little, I was told that if I didn’t go to sleep the bogeyman would come and get me, so I slept soundly through his visits). 

I possibly have Chrometophobia/Chrematophobia - fear of money - which is why I never have any, I suspect. 

And I probably also have Lutraphobia - fear of otters -  ever since I saw Mij the otter in Ring of Bright Water was chopped in two by some workmen with an axe when I was seven. My mother tried to comfort me by saying it was a cousin of Mij who had come to visit (Christine Evans quickly corrected me on that delusion in school the next morning, and I returned home, hysterical). But maybe this isn’t a fear of otters, just a fear of careless workmen wielding axes, and I don’t think there’s a name for that.

   

My heightened state of anxiety these days, though, I am going to put down to a whole new phobia - Googleaphobia. Because, no matter what happens to me, my friends, or in the world at large, I am onto Google to investigate further, and now I live in fear of what I am going to find there.

   

I could just stop, of course, but Googleaphobia is a fear akin to a scary ride at the funfair: you’re frightened of it, you know it’s going to terrify the shit out of you, but you want it anyway. You’re hooked on the fear.

   
So, I’m going to keep going with my quest for life support from Google, just to see how many more lunatics are out there offering services they can’t actually deliver, and preying on my fears about everything in order to fill their own coffers.

   

My fear of having money is about to get a whole lot worse with these crooks, I fear. 

Fear of fear. 

You see? I’ve got that, too. 

Bring on the men in white coats.